


bestow a kiss on me, sweet love

by siriuslydraco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:39:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslydraco/pseuds/siriuslydraco
Summary: Jon had always wanted to kiss Sansa, but he hadn't planned on kissing her more than once.a man would do anything for a kiss from his beloved.....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I totally made up a Westeros fairy tale for the purpose of the story lol. I wanted to do something fluffy and cute and decided to write all the kisses Jon and Sansa share before realising their feelings. And of course me being me I had to add just a teeny tiny bit of angst but hope you all enjoy the first part!

The weirwood tree that stood in the godswood had seen many things during the years it had been there with its bone white roots in the soil. With it's red eyes that looked upon the North with solemn discontent it almost looked completely unapproachable, but many Lords of Winterfell had bowed before it, ofttimes mumbling incoherent prayers that the gods did well to listen to. It stood silent and stony, no voice, or movement or feeling, but it _saw_. And sometimes it listened more than not.

It listened now, as the Stark children spoke and fought so loudly it caused the red leaves on its branches to shiver.

"I want to be King Robert this time!" Jon was sulking - a temperament he was not shy to - his grey eyes looking into his brothers blue ones. 

"But you were King Robert last time, if you remember. It's only fair that I'm him now" Robb tells him, his voice taking on that lordly tone he so often tries to emulate. It was the way their father talked when he was trying to be diplomatic and Jon almost felt like laughing. Although he knew that Robb's pride would probably be stung and he'd tell his mother, Lady Catelyn.  Jon didn't need a reason for her to hate him more.

"Why does it matter?" Sansa asks, standing pouting beneath the weirwood, a five year old with matted brown hair and a dirty dress clutching her hand. They'd been playing in the mud most of the day, and while Arya looked wild and filthy, her red haired sister looked as immaculate as ever. Jon often wondered whether her ethereal prettiness repelled the dirt. 

"It matters because King Robert is the _King_! And I want to be the King today" Robb pouts, his hand pushing a flop of auburn hair from his eyes. He was fast approaching eleven, the same as Jon, and it was about time both of them indulged in hair cuts. 

"But I don't want to be Rhaegar. I like being King Robert" Jon huffs out, shoving the point of his practice sword into the deep soil of the godswood. A rustle of leaves unsettles him so much he pulls the blunt sword back out, its tip now covered in moist earth. 

"You seem more of a Rhaegar to me" Robb shrugs, hoping his compliment might persuade Jon to give up the role of Robert. One he often played while they took part in princes and maidens. It was a favorite game of theirs, one that stroked Sansa's ego and allowed her to be the damsel in distress that she often sang about, and the boys were allowed to fight for her honor. And it was that reason the boys liked playing, because they got to _fight_ , even if it was with practice swords. But both boys loved the sound of clashing steel and the urge to win. But Rhaegar had lost, and that made Jon bitter. He didn't want to lose to Robb, even if it was just some stupid game of Sansa's, because he always lost to Robb. And a part of him told him he always would. 

"If I'm to be Lyanna, then I need someone to rescue me" Sansa's pleasant voice drifts towards them and Jon can't help but look to where she stands. Those grey eyes that look so different from his brothers follow her nimble fingers as they tuck a strand of fiery hair behind her ear. He knew they were only playing- and despite the fact he was only ten- he knew he'd try and win her favor any day, but he wasn't granted it yet. He was only her father's bastard, and while Arya held his hand and watched him practice fight with Robb, Sansa always held her gaze away from him. Just like her mother, he thought. 

"Neither Rhaegar nor Robert rescued Lyanna" Robb adds, his tone full of lordly logic. Jon loved his brother with his whole heart, but sometimes Robb's inability to use his imagination really stifled him at the best of times. 

"Why don't we play the cursed maiden?" Sansa suggests eagerly. It was another one of her favorite stories that she almost always suggested to play, but the intrigue of pretend battle between a Baratheon and a Targaryen reeled the boys in another direction most days. They'd never played "the cursed maiden" even though it was a tale Old Nan spun for them many a dark night. 

It was a story of a Valyrian princess who's father had refused her hand to a monster, and in the monsters rage he had found it fit to curse her with a spell so she'd fall into a sleep for a hundred winters. Only her beloved could wake her. Jon had never liked the story much, it was always too lacking in sword fights and battles. But Arya claps her hands in delight, and her Stark eyes gleam as they look at her siblings. 

"I like that story! Can I play the monster?" she asks with a morbid eagerness. She may be only five summers but she always had a will to play the most vicious and feared names in their little games. 

"Yes, and Robb can play the gallant knight who rescues me with a kiss" Sansa tells them, although Jon can sense Robb's discomfort in the air. His heart beat falters a little at the thought that she hadn't suggested Jon be the knight first, but maybe a bastard wasn't worthy of that title, even in pretend.

"Can I be the Ser Wilhelm who tries to wake the maiden but gets killed by the monster instead?" Robb asks her hopefully, and is rewarded by Sansa sighing loudly. 

"Fine. Then Jon must wake me with a kiss"

There's a silence then that makes Jon feel as if the gods themselves struck out sound from the world and two pairs of blue and one pair of grey eyes look at him in waiting. He feels yet another pair of eyes on him, red and weeping as they sit carved in their bone tree. But he will not meet _those_ eyes for he fears they will see through his soul. The gods would for sure strike him down if they were to know how much he _wants_ to kiss Sansa. 

She is almost eight, and he only a few years older but already he can tell that she will be as beautiful as Elia Martell was or his fathers sister, Lyanna, when she is of age. There is a hint of her mother in her, although Sansa's face still holds the roundness of childhood deep in her features, and Jon hopes that she will not grow to be a shadow of Lady Catelyn when she becomes a woman grown. Lady Catelyn was lovely to look upon, but her eyes often held a disgust so vile Jon could almost taste it. He was on the other end of those eyes too many times. 

He's filled with a boyish giddiness every time he looks at her, and he knows it's only a silly feeling, brought on by the long summer and the confusing transition from boyhood to manhood. He'll be a man grown soon, father said so, just the other day when he let him hold a real sword. But he is afraid he'll find her even more beautiful when he is a man and when she is as lithe and tall as the maidens from songs. That thought should be banished from his mind, and he almost feels like falling to his knees in front of the weirwood and ask for the gods forgiveness. Sansa is his sister, as Arya is, and he knows he could never think of Arya that way. The gods should strike him down where he stands.

"Jon? Are you still going to play?" it's her voice that brings him out of his reverie and he looks at her, into those blue eyes rimmed with thick black lashes "you can be Ansell the Brave, who slew the monster and woke Athalia from her sleep"   

"With a kiss?" Jon finds himself asking hoarsely, much to the annoyance of the red head under the rustling leaves of the weirwood. 

"Yes Jon, with a kiss" her blue eyes roll spectacularly "haven't you ever listened to Old Nan tell the story? She's only told us a hundred times" 

"Al...alright then" he says, gripping the pommel of his practice blade for support and he can't help but feel elated when Sansa smiles at him as warmly as the hot  godswood pool that bubbles beside their feet. 

They begin their game then with a clumsy sort of theatrics that would have travelers in the Free Cities laughing at them as if they were in some spectacle you buy tickets for. At one stage Arya poked Robb in the eye so hard while they were play fighting that they had to stall their game and see to their brother, but he carried on after a moment, his left eye closed narrower than his right. 

Jon stood all the while feeling dumb and uninterested, not like when he played princes and maidens and would be happy to strut around and declare himself King while fending off his auburn haired brother who in that moment mimicked a Targaryen prince. He felt sick now, as he waited to kiss the cursed maiden that lay beneath the weirwood on her back, her hands clasped together and her face as cold looking as stone. He couldn't even enjoy the hilarious onslaught that Robb and his baby sister were engaged in, both tumbling upon the brown earth and tickling the other- one declaring they were the Monster of the Mountain and the other Ser Wilhelm who later lay slumped on the ground as Arya was declared victorious. 

When Arya- tongue lolling and eyes rolling in feigned agony- dropped to the ground beside her brother, Jon knew it was his moment to wake the princess. He stepped over the monster he had just slain and began his heavy steps towards the girl on the ground. He threw his sword beside her and knelt upon the leaves and twigs, his eyes never leaving her face. 

She really was very pretty, with her red hair splayed around her and her face as white as the bark of the tree and her lips as red as its leaves. He found she almost looked too convincing, like she really was a sleeping princess cursed until her one true love, a handsome prince, kisses her and breaks it. But he is not a prince, and he never will be. But some small part of him wonders whether he could ever kiss her and break a curse within her, for real and not pretend. 

His heart picks its speed up inside him, and a part of him knows that if their father came around the corner and saw what they were doing he'd have Jon's head for it. But he _wants_ to, even if he is only a boy, he knows he wants it. 

He's slow as he leans forward and his lips tremble as they touch hers. It's soft and gentle and nothing short of sweet. He can smell her skin this close, and it's a scent of lemons and lavender oil and the starched cloth she likes to embroider on. Her lips are as soft as wildflower petals and he presses his against them once and then he leans away, the soft black ends of his hair tickling her face as he does. 

Her eyes open then, and there's a look in them that mirrors something akin to shock but underneath the sharp gleam is a haziness that makes Jon want to smile. He looks away from her then and towards the monster and knight who are no longer crumpled on the ground, but who are sitting up, alert and wide eyed. Arya blinks rapidly in confusion, her mind whirling like that time she had seen mother and father kiss. Robb looks between Jon and the slowly rising Sansa with a curiousness that is altogether too mature for his ten years. 

Suddenly Jon's face feels very hot as Ser Wilhelm the auburn haired knight coughs deeply. 

"You could have just kissed her forehead" 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments on part one! Now for part two and for Jon and Sansa's second kiss. Enjoy!

_I want you to leave_. 

The words ring in Jon's mind as if they were being whispered into his ear at that very moment, and he can't help but feel that the echo of Lady Catelyn's voice is heavy in the air. He tries to rid them from his memory, but the way the leaves of the weirwood rustle in the breeze makes him feel as if they too whisper it cruelly. He kneels before the tree, those red eyes gleaming as they stare at him, seeing through his inner soul and into the darkest and loneliest parts of himself. 

He feels lonely now, those dark places inside him that are the color of obsidian are aching emptily and he feels as if he's the only person in the world. He will leave for the Wall today, and he will not look back. Only the gods with their judging eyes can truly tell if he'll ever walk atop the battlements of Winterfell or stand beneath its heart tree ever again. He doubts he ever will. The cold fortress of Castle Black, steeped in legend and partnered with the harshness of ice will stand as his new home. And strangers in black will serve as his new brothers; his new family. 

He's never been fully a part of the Stark household; he does not bare their name or sigil and does not have the title that Robb has or will ever have. He's Lord Eddard's bastard son, and the wall is full of bastard boys. Jon will just be another one, and perhaps he will finally find a place where he belongs.

 _But you belong here. You have the wolf's blood in you._ He hears the whisper and his eyes snap to the tree, the red leaves above him faintly tremble and he feels as if the gods themselves are taunting him. He does not belong here, his fathers wife had made that clear when he had gone to visit his broken brother and he feels that her words are far greater than those of the Old Gods. 

Bran had lay shattered and small beneath his furs, Summer protectively lying beside him and Lady Catelyn had sat there with eyes full of tears and an anger that made Jon feel that the promise of the Wall was much warmer than Winterfell. But as Jon said his goodbyes to his sleeping brother- not knowing if he'd ever wake- he was filled with a sense that he _shouldn't_ go, that he should stay here with his family. 

The thought of that brings him to his feet and his eyes tear from the blood red ones that run with scarlet sap and to the brown earth of the godswood floor. He is done praying, and he knows it has not done him much good. He still has troubles so deep he feels as if he's falling every time he thinks on them, but perhaps the gods will not listen to him. Not when they know he leaves for a place no gods can reach. 

He thinks instead of Arya as he leaves the godswood, and finds the memory of her smile and her warm embrace makes him feel better. She was perhaps the hardest to say goodbye to, but leaving her with the sword he had forged gave him a comfort that she'd remember him more often than the others. Rickon had cried and kicked Jon's legs as he'd said his goodbyes to him, and Jon knew it wasn't out of malice that he left Jon's thighs bruised, but because he didn't want his brother to go. Maybe Bran would have cried too, if the gods had let him wake.

The yard of Winterfell is bustling with men who are saddling horses and polishing swords, the sound of hooves and clanging steel are filling the air and Jon welcomes the noise with a deep reverence. It is no longer so silent as it was in the godswood, and he finds his thoughts are drowned out with the sounds he hears. Lady Catelyn's solemn words retreat to the back of his mind, only now a dull echo and not the scream it was before. 

The halls of Winterfell are almost empty, save for a few servants who are loading the last of Lord Eddard's things into the carriages that await outside. Jon is not the only one who leaves for an unknown place. His father will take his two sisters with him to Kings Landing, and Jon can't help but feel an overwhelming bitterness towards it all. Sansa will leave, and fall into the clutches of lions. 

 _Sansa_. His mind sighs the name and he can not help the deep thrum of his heart as he does. 

They are not children any longer, and gone are the days when they would innocently play princes and maidens in the godswood, but he still thinks she is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. But now she leaves like he does, and in years to come she will be wed to the ghastly Baratheon heir. The thought of Sansa sitting beside the blond devil while he lays atop the Iron Throne makes him sick, and it's a reason he has not slept in days. Not since Joffrey looked at her so vulgarly at dinner. 

His mind is consumed once again, but this time it's filled with red hair and sky blue eyes and his own sickening guilt that always creeps along the forefront of his thoughts when he thinks of her. He is so consumed, fully and blindly, that he does not realise that as he rounds the corner the very person who his mind is infatuated with appears in front of him. Jon almost walks by her, eyes as distracted as his mind. 

"Jon" she greets him and he stops in his tracks, that voice stalling all ability to move. His eyes look to the window alcove where she sits and he is stunned by how pretty she looks when the northern sunlight streams through the glass and reflects in her eyes. They are a Dornish sea or the lakes of the Sapphire Isle, her hair as red as dragons flames and her lips are fresh blood on snow. She's lovely to look upon, and it's not a new thought within his mind. He's had that thought plague him his entire life. 

"Sansa" her name is always rough when he says it for his voice is of the North, coarse and brittle and he hates the fact he can't say it as courteous or as lovingly as Prince Joffrey can. But she feels warm when he says it, and nothing about her face ever gives it away. And Jon does not know. 

"You seem to be in a hurry" she tells him as he makes his way to where she sits, her eyes dropping to her hands like they do when her and Jon converse. Which is not often; like her mother she tries to avoid him as much as possible. 

"I was just heading to my room" he says, noticing how she has chosen to sit in the window alcove beside his chambers; a place she does not often frequent. Was she waiting for him? An absurd thought with no truth, he thinks, she'd never wait for him.

"Father told me you went to see Bran earlier. How is he?" Sansa asks, those crystalline eyes rising slowly to his.  

 _There are no women at the wall, and men of the Night's Watch do not take wives._ Uncle Benjens voice echos in his head now and Jon hopes that the memory of Sansa's beauty can sustain the loveless void that will never be filled as long as he wears the black. 

In that moment he does not care that she is his sister, that they both share Lord Eddard's blood. The difference of their mothers becomes prominent and so does the divide between his feelings. The line between siblings and something more gets shadowy and vague. In that moment he lets himself feel completely unabashed for the thoughts of her beauty.

"I said my goodbyes to him, but I fear he's not faring well" Jon frowns and so does Sansa, her face lovelier than his could ever be in sadness "he didn't wake like I thought he would"

"He'll wake soon enough, I'm sure of it. I've prayed at the heart tree every day for him" she tells him, her voice a wavering whisper at the end. _The same heart tree I once kissed your lips under_ , he thinks but does not utter aloud.

"Yes as have I. I only hope the gods will hear them" he lets himself smile dryly at her and she attempts one back, Jon not missing how her eyes flicker to his smiling lips "I hope they'll still hear them when I'm at the wall"

"Are you nervous Jon?" Her voice is quiet, only a whisper in the empty alcove and she rises slowly from her stony seat, Jon's eyes almost level with hers. She's slowly becoming a woman, and she is going to be as graceful and willowy as he always thought she'd be. He can't help but find it intriguing how her hair shifts from copper to a burnt orange when the sunlight streams through, and he would gladly burn in it all day. But his eyes go to hers, his grey boring into her Tully blue and he feels his heart tighten in his chest at her question. 

Sansa had barely spoken to him much on the topic; hardly at all really and had never entertained Jon's fantasies of becoming a brother in black like Robb and Arya had when they were young. She had thought of Uncle Benjen as a great knight who protected the realms but had never compared Jon to him, and she had never not once expressed a concern for him. Not like she does now, her tone of voice cloaked in a concern Jon feels is altogether unlike her. 

"I....I suppose I am, yes" Jon eventually says, his black brows furrowed "but I know it's where I belong" 

Sansa looks as if in that moment she's about to say something to contradict him, but the spark of defiance is gone and she's left with her usual gleam in her eyes. She looks at her hands that are clasped in front of her stomach, her nimble fingers that so deftly sewed, wringing themselves together. 

"I've been to see Arya" Sansa says, her voice tighter than it was before "I don't think Father will be too pleased to know you've gifted her a blade" 

"I don't think he will" Jon smiles warmly "but I'll be safe at the Wall and far away from his anger whenever he happens upon Arya with it" 

"I fear she'll probably use it on me often than not" she laughs a little, the sound like the sweeping winds of summer. He finds he sighs aloud at the sound of it, and when he realises the quick flicker of her eyes to his he covers it up with a gruff cough. She is silent then for a moment, and Jon fears she's run out of conversation with him, but her eyes tell a different story, one of sadness and longing. A look he often had in his own eyes. 

"Will you miss her more than me?" her voice is a pure whisper and she says it so softly that seeing her lips moving is the only inclination to Jon that she actually spoke. He is torn then between the hidden thoughts he has of Sansa and the general ones he lets irritate him on a daily basis. 

She is ofttimes cold and placid towards him, and he is not fond of her prim and proper manner that she displays even in his presence. She's treated him as a secondary family member his entire life, and has never addressed him as anything other than her _half_ brother to anyone who asks. Sometimes he sees too much of Lady Catelyn in her, and he becomes horrified that she will become her. 

But other times he feels a sense of elation when he looks at her or hears her voice. Any man, bastard or no, would be unworthy to look at her. Even a boy as high born as Joffrey. Maybe he'll miss Arya's company more, and miss the bond he and his youngest sister share, but he will miss Sansa from the deepest parts of his heart and he knows her memory will make his soul quake. 

"I'll miss you all" he finally answers her. _But I'll miss you differently._

"As we will miss you" Sansa's smile is lovely then but he cannot take enjoyment from it. She had said _we_ , and he knows she still sees it as unseemly to placate herself with him alone. He just nods his head then, and copies the curve that is placed on her lips. 

"Perhaps I'll come visit King's Landing when I'm First Ranger and you're Queen" he tells her then, and her smile grows wider at the mention of herself as Queen. There is a genuine delight on her face at the thought that makes Jon's skin prickle. He pushes the thought of her as Sansa Baratheon from his mind. 

"Perhaps" she's back to her usual self and any inkling of despair at his departure is gone from her eyes, and he feels as if he imagined it "but for now, goodbye Jon Snow" 

"Goodbye, Sansa" he bows his head, her eyes taking in his face once more before she turns around from the alcove and begins to walk away. He does not know what mad courage the gods have bestowed on him at that moment but his rough hand reaches towards her snow white wrist. She turns surprised as he slowly pulls her to him, and her eyes are as wide as a doe, but she allows herself to move into his warmth. 

The memory of her lying beneath a weirwood, flowers in her hair and eyes closed in feigned sleep come to his mind, and suddenly he finds he is ten again and he is Ansell the Brave and she the cursed maiden. But they are not pretending now and her eyes are not closed but on his, a beautiful clear sky full of impending thunder. 

She gasps as he leans forward and a part of him wants to pull away and apologise for startling her, but his courage wills him and he leans more. Her cheek is soft beneath his lips and her arm goes slack in his hand, a relaxation taking over her that he delights at. She smells like she always does, lemons and lavender and something so undeniably northern that he cannot place. He pulls away after a moment, and he sees a glistening imprint of his wet lips on her cheek that he hopes will sink past her skin and etch itself on her soul for eternity. 

He lets her go then, his hands dropping from her body as he takes a step back. Sansa looks at him then with a curiousness in her eyes and soft fingers trembling over the place he kissed her. He thinks she means to slap him for his boldness when she raises that trembling hand in front of her, but she uses it to grab his face and all of a sudden she reciprocates the kiss. Her lips on his cheek. As soft as rose petals on a bed of needles. 

There is a covering of black stubble on his face that she kisses over and he shivers when her lips place themselves near his jaw. His hands are limp by his sides and he wishes to grab her with them, to fist them in her copper hair. But her touch is gone before he can give her anything. 

There is a flurry of ice blue fabric and red curls as she spins away from him, the click of her shoes echoing down the hallway and Jon is left standing by himself. 

They are not children beneath a weirwood anymore, and he knows as he watches her leave that his feelings have become even more forbidden and strong towards her. The thought of his desire almost makes him long for the Wall even more. But he knows he will carry her with him in his heart, and he finds his cheek stings with the memory of her kiss. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so basically this chapter is just another take on the famed forehead kiss (swoon) that Jon gave Sansa in season 6. Enjoy!  
> (plus some lines are taken from that scene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright time for our third kiss, and older Jon and Sansa!! :)

Bathed in the silvery glow of the moon and the swath of orange candlelight, she looks as if she is a stone carving from the crypts. She does not move and her porcelain skin looks like granite and marble as the moonlight wanes through the window she stands before. She is all sharp angles and hollowed crevices as the shadows canvas themselves on her face, her beauty thrown out as strongly as ever. She looks like a ghost, and Jon feels haunted as he looks at her. 

Hidden in half shadow that is cloaked around him he stands by the door of the great hall, his black eyes watching her as she stands as solemn and straight as the Lady Catelyn once did. Ever since she returned to Winterfell, and he with her, they have heard nothing but comparisons of the Lord and Lady that once ruled contently. He has been told he looks so much like his father and Sansa her mother, and he can't understand whether he delights at the parallels or detests them. Maybe they _are_ the shadows of those who once walked these hallways, and maybe they can't help it.

Standing there as she does she certainly looks the picture of her mother; beautiful and flame haired and the Tully inheritance prominent in her eyes. But Lady Catelyn would never have looked at him as proud and as sure as Sansa had looked at him when he had been declared King in the North. 

 _Ned Starks blood runs through his veins. He is my King, from this day until his last day_. Lyanna Mormont's words have plagued him since they were spoken, and the cry of the northern men declaring him King has unsettled him gravely. He has wondered since he was crowned whether he truly deserves the title, or if he is robbing the true Stark heir from her birth right. Sansa had seemed as sure as the north men, but Jon has thought that perhaps she had feigned her fealty; a trick of deceit she had learned from Lord Baelish. 

The slimy whisperer that watches his sister with vipers eyes has all but hounded her these past few days. Jon can't help but see how he skirts around her, skittish and deceitful and muttering things in her ear that makes Sansa look at Jon differently day by day. Perhaps she has grown to resent him, a hate constructed by Petyr and his bare jealousy of Jon and Sansa's bond. Ever since she clutched him closely at Castle Black, she hasn't let him out of her sight and sits beside him at meetings and dinner as if she's reigning along with him. Some part of Jon wishes that she maybe was, but he wonders if she wants to do it _alone_ and all her proximity is just another way of watching him as Baelish does.

The sound of his footsteps on the cold stone floor draws attention to him as he leaves the shadow, and her blue eyes follow his shape as he makes his way towards her. Her eyes that meet his give away no sign of anything that can confirm or deny his inkling paranoia. She only looks at him as she always does, a hidden something beneath the curve of her mouth and the blush in her cheeks that gives Jon unseemly thoughts that she perhaps thinks of him as he thinks of her. 

"My Lady" he greets her, the formal title rolling off his tongue more easily everyday. If only she knew he wanted to make her _his_ lady "I didn't expect to see you up so late at night" 

"Perhaps I should be sleeping, the whole north seems to be asleep" Sansa's says, her eyes leaving him to look past the window. Darkness stares back at her, and only the candles of the watchmans tower are burning. There's not even a star in the sky to light the north, just the large moon that seems to only glow through this window and nowhere else "but I can't sleep, my mind won't let me" 

He knows how she feels, he knows what sort of darkness takes her when she sleeps. He heard her cry out their first few nights here, a sobbing that seemed to echo off the walls and all the way down to the dead in the crypts. Her mind is as occupied as Jon's, but when sleep manages to take her it always leaves her more tired than she was before. A part of him wants to ask her now if the dreams have gone away, if Joffrey and Ramsay's memories have left her, but as he looks at her and sees the light purple lines beneath her eyes he knows there's no point. The pain of their memory is plain upon her face. 

"I'm having the lord's chambers prepared for you tomorrow, perhaps you'll get a better sleep in there" he tells her, his eyes watching as her face slackens in confusion. 

"Mother and father's room?" Sansa asks him, turning her moon lit face to his "you should take it" 

 "I'm not a Stark" he tells her, his eyes ripping from the window and to her face. He smiles stiffly at her as if to deflect the hurt that's hidden in those words, but her face is a lovely canvas of furrowed lines and defiance. 

"You are to me" she says. Her words mean more to him than she can know, a whole lifetime of being called a _bastard_ and a _half_ _brother_ seem to vanish as if she's poured wildfire on his memory. They are desolate and obsolete, the past tainting to black and white as her words paint new color to the present. He half expected Arya to be the one to declare him a true Stark, but she is leagues away and all he has is Sansa. Sansa who is vivid and beautiful, and who is now accepting him in a way he never thought her capable of. 

"Am I truly?" Jon's voice is like the rustle of weirwood leaves or the soft flap of a ravens wing; barely there but loud enough to notice "is that how you feel, my lady?" 

"My opinion on the matter shouldn't have any concern to you Jon" she tells him, her eyes flashing with a deep contemplation "the whole North has declared you King, they already think of you as a Stark" 

Her blue eyes draw a map on his face; all fluttering lines and deep gazes at his lips. There are no stars in the black sky tonight, but he feels as if he's looking into the constellations Maester Luwin taught them as he stares into her eyes. There are so many questions in them, but she does not ask him any. 

"You're opinion matters to me more than any lord, Sansa" 

Words have been thrown around Sansa so much she's begun to question everything people say; dissecting their messages and speech with a carefulness that would have rivaled Lord Varys. Joffrey had spoken to her as such, hiding behind false courtesies and flattery that he threw at her when they had first met. She hadn't been clever enough then, and hadn't thought the same person who once told her she was his lady would command the execution of her father. 

But Jon is not Joffrey, and that fact is apparently plain in the way he is around her. He's careful in a way that once would have vexed her, but a delicacy she now welcomes. It is if she's porcelain and he's afraid each harsh word spoken around her, each small brush of his arm on hers will break her. But she is not porcelain, but the finest Valyrian steel, forged from bitterness and her own sheer will to live. Jon does not need to know that; as long as he still gets to be gentle with her then she will not let him know. 

_When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone who's brave and gentle and strong._

Her father's words echo in her mind as she stares at those eyes the color of dragon glass and she is hit with a wave of realisation. Here stands the prince she had been promised, the true knight she'd read about in stories, the handsome king who rescued the maiden. He is all the fairy tales and poems, the edges of the story woven now with a darkness but the fact still remains true. _Jon_ is brave and gentle and strong. 

As he stands there now, his Stark like face full of the flickering candle light, she is struck with the thought that he is more handsome than any man she saw at court. He is more handsome than she had ever perceived Joffrey to be. While Joffrey had been gold and green, he is all black and deep grey. He is the colors of the north, the colors of home. 

Jon is not Joffrey, or Ramsay. He is Jon, and he has said that her opinion, the words of a once stupid girl full of dreams, means more to him than the lords of the northern houses. 

"Do you think it wrong of me to stand here as father did? To let those men call me king when it's Robb who should be here?" Jon asks her, his voice deep and soft and full of the war that rages within himself. The war he feels he's unworthy to fight "I'm a bastard Sansa, no matter how many men stand here and tell me I'm a Stark I am still a bastard. I was born one and I'll die one" 

"Father and Robb aren't here, Jon. Neither is Bran, and Rickon is dead" he winces at Rickon's name; the memory of his panicked face as he ran to Jon flashing through his mind "but _you_ are. You heard Lord Glover and all the others, you avenged the red wedding. You took back Winterfell" 

"If you hadn't of come to me at Castle Black I would've let the Boltons have it" his eyes don't look at hers anymore, but out the window and way past the dark horizon "our family was gone, our house was gone. Nothing was left, and I didn't see a point in fighting any more. I took it back because of you. Because you deserved someone to fight for you for once. You're the Lady of Winterfell Sansa, and I'm not the only man who'll fight for you. You have to be sure that it's wise to give your seat and your house, and all that respect men will fight for, to a bastard" 

 _I'm not the only man who'll fight for you_. She takes a step closer to him, and she aches to tell him how much she _wants_ him to be the only man to fight for her. But he is your brother, she thinks. 

"You remind me of him, you know. Of father" Sansa tells him with the ghost of a smile on her face "I think you're more like him than Robb ever was. Both too honorable, and your honor hinders you now. You, bastard or not, deserve this Jon. You're King in the North because those men wanted you to be, because they want you to lead them. If they wanted me to rule they would have bent their knees to me. They respect you, and they trust you" 

"I fear not everyone respects or trusts me" the image of narrow grey eyes that wander too often come to Jon's mind, and he can't help but feel as if Sansa can read his mind in that moment. Jon may feel as if he has imagined the deep cries of _King in the North_ , but he knows he did not imagine the vexed look in Lord Baelish's eyes when the northern men bent their knees. 

"If you're speaking of Lord Baelish, I wouldn't worry too much. He has a habit of despising people with high titles unless that person is himself" Sansa tells him coolly, and he can't keep his eyes from her face as she says them. To catch any flicker of emotion that will fault her; but there is none. 

"Why do you insist on his counsel? You told me he sold you to the Boltons. You must trust him then?" Jon asks her, his jaw clenched and eyes hard on hers " _do_ you trust him?" 

"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger" there is a cold laugh hidden beneath her words, and as the silver moon filters in and her face turns as cool as granite he becomes frightened that she has turned into a statue after all. But her face then becomes a plain of pained lines and her light brown eyebrows furrow deeply as she looks at him. 

"I should have told you about him" Sansa tells him, a deep apology rooted in her sky blue eyes "about....the knights of the vale. I'm sorry" 

He takes a step closer to her then, feeling as if she's somewhat child like with her eyes downcast and her bottom lip wobbling with her apology. He feels as if she had not trusted him as much as he deserved her to, but he can not blame her for her careful way of thinking. She has been mistreated by so many, and her caution is only a by product of being captive in Kings Landing so long. 

"We need to trust each other" Jon looks at her squarely, his eyes looking at hers in such a way that gives them no possibility to escape his hold on them "if we don't trust each other, then what was all this for?" 

"I trust you, Jon. More than anyone" Sansa says softly, the look of uncertainty vanishing from her face. 

He is possessed then by an overwhelming need to be closer to her, and he knows if he's to step nearer to her then he'll be crossing a barrier that he should never venture near. But he puts one hand on the side of her head, pulling her face towards him instead. His lips press to her forehead and his hips angle themselves away from any part of her he should not touch, no matter how much he wants to. His thumb strokes her red hair, and maybe he's left his lips upon her soft skin longer than they should; but he is reminded of another time, so many years ago, when she had kissed him beneath an alcove. Those red lips pressed to his jaw, and he shivers with the memory. 

Her eyes look up at his when he pulls away, and they are full of wonderment and confusion. But all he does in return is trace the outline of her lips, cursing his own blood for the fact he can not touch them. For the first time in his life he wishes he was not Lord Eddard's son. 

He steps away from her then, putting a fair distance between her and her lips and he does not say another thing as he turns and walks away. He can not keep those desires in his mind, those forbidden ones he should shun of his sister and he should rid himself of those thoughts as soon as possible. But as he leaves her there, bathed in the light he found her in, he wonders exactly how many times the gods will let him kiss Sansa Stark before he realises he can not run from them. 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need jonsa friends on tumblr lol! go follow me @winterjons and tag me in all your jon x sansa posts and just drop me a message if you feel like discussing anything! I'm always up for it!

_I'm not a Stark. You are to me._ Echoes of words that had been spoken; once they had meant everything, coloring obsidian to a vibrant scarlet and disappointment for an unfulfilled life to hope. They had once meant everything, but they are now nothing. For they _mean_ nothing. 

Jon is no Stark, and the realisation hits him as he stands atop the parapets of Winterfell. All around him is cold stone and even colder snow, and while he once eyed the great North as home, he now understands he has no right to call it that. He is no wolf, no great beast of ancient winter, but a dragon that is a sigil of old. A once great and now tarnished house rests on his shoulders, the title of a Targaryen prince bestowed on him as the snow fell and when Bran came home. 

His brothers voice, so different from the childish lilt it was when Jon heard it last, now deep and grave had told him the truth of his lineage. How Lyanna Stark, a woman he had believed to be his aunt, was actually his mother. In his dreams she had been kind eyed and high born, and the old parts of himself delight that his childish fancies have materialised to truth. But it's bittersweet, for Lord Eddard Stark is not his father.

Rhaegar Targaryen, the dragon prince that was revered and steeped in legendary narrative was his father. _Is_ his father. He may be dead, Jon thinks, but he is still my true blooded father.

The cold winds that are laced with snow are thrown against his face as the gusts blow from the furthest point of the northern horizon, and the bite of frost reminds him how his blood no longer belongs to winter. It is now half fire, dragons fire, and half ice; mixing in his veins to create a song of frost and flame; a melancholy melody that was created from a union looked down upon. 

 _How many tens of thousands had to die because Rhaegar chose your aunt?_   The question that Petyr Baelish arose within Sansa has plagued Jon like a ghost ever since she told him of Baelishs's thoughts on the matter. Jon hates the man, every fiery trace of dragons blood inside him and every carnal wolf instinct detests him, but even Jon hates to admit that Littlefinger's ominous declaration has some truth. How many tens of thousands had to die because Prince Rhaegar chose Jon's mother? 

He does not see himself as one, nor will he declare himself a Targaryen to his bannermen yet, but he cannot deny it. And he can feel the north slipping away as quickly as the snow melts beneath his feet. Rhaegar had gone to war with Robert, and in the wake of his cause had slaughtered northern men and their kin, and Jon knows they will not forget. _The North remembers._ He can feel it in the air, that sense of melancholy nostalgia that bears truth in the way weirwoods whisper, and the way the ice sets itself upon the ground. 

He is of fire and flame, and his legacy will destroy as sure and as quick as wildfire. 

Will the north turn their back on him as they once did when he was called a bastard? Or will they accept a dragon as King in the North? The outcome is most unlikely, and he fears if he stays here at Winterfell, and if he continues to bear this title then his family will be threatened too. He can not see them harmed, they have faced enough already. 

"Your Grace" he hears a voice behind him, and he looks behind his shoulder to see Ser Davos, hands clasped behind his back and his wrinkled brow furrowed like it normally is as he looks at Jon. He can not get used to being called _Your Grace_ , and something inside himself recoils every time he hears it. 

"Ser Davos, are the council ready?" he asks, his question answered with a stiff nod. Jon sighs heavily, the wisps of breath turning to ice in the air, and he feels tired already. The council only consists of Jon, Sansa, Ser Davos and the wildling Tormund Giantsbane, and now his brother Bran- cousin he reminds himself bitterly. More often than not, Petyr Baelish sits around the table in the great hall, and listens intently to everything said. Jon does not trust his advice, but his experience of being on the small council in King's Landing can provide them with some insight. And Jon feels it's better to know Baelish's next move than be oblivious to it. 

They're already waiting for him as he enters the great hall, the stone walls illuminated with the orange glow of candle flame and the high windows letting in the last of the evening light. Bran sits slumped in a chair, his legs oddly dead and weightless looking but his eyes are ever alert. Jon can not get used to looking at him, ever since he arrived with Meera Reed he feels as if he'll disappear or that he is nothing more than a vision of his brother; one that will vanish if Jon looks away too long. He feels a deep ache in his chest when he sees him, remembering all those times when he was young and how he had always thought he was his older brother. 

How wrong I was, thinks Jon bitterly. 

Sansa sits alongside Petyr Baelish, much to the annoyance of the King and his footsteps and breathing get louder as he charges to his chair. The great red haired brute, Tormund, eyes Jon with a wild sort of understanding in his eyes. As battle hungry and as rebellious as Tormund is, Jon can see that he has another sight that not many men in the civilized cities have. He knows the way Jon eyes Sansa with a love Jon thought he had kept well hidden, but the red haired man can see behind his mask. He knows Jon too well; unsettling as it is. 

He keeps his eyes on Sansa's face as he walks to his chair, and all anger at the sight of Littlefinger is soon faded away as she smiles at him. He is bruised, a dark shell of a man who had once kissed death and beat it, and he has been on the shadowed side of everything. He is now not who he thought he was, and all the battle he fights within does not make him feel at a loss when he thinks of how she is not his sister. He can not bring himself to regret the truth of it; he rather prefers the way she is no longer so close to him in blood. 

It makes his feelings towards her seem righteous somehow, and not the ungodly thoughts they were before. 

There is a scraping of chairs, all except Brans, as every member of Jon's council stands up. Tormund eyes him with a smile, awkward and least knowledgeable in the arts of courtly customs, but he stands nonetheless, casting a brutish shadow on the wooden table. Petyr is as slick and slithering as always, bowing his head low and a look casting over his face that screams false respect. Jon can not help but notice how his greyish eyes slide to Sansa as she stands beside him.

"Please, sit" Jon holds up a hand, his humble side that will contest with his kingly title prominent in the fleeting glance in his eyes. 

"Your Grace, there's no need to prolong the question at hand" it's Petyr who speaks first and Jon clenches his jaw and does the same with his hands as he rests them atop the oak table. He fears Baelish is not the type of man to prolong any question he needs an answer for. 

"Which would be, Lord Baelish?" it angers him to call him such a formal title, but he bears through it with gritted teeth. Sansa can sense the tension that rolls from Jon as she stares at him, his face all furrowed angles in the shadow of candlelight. Her heart flutters as it does these days when she reminds herself he is not her brother. 

"What will you do with the information you have been given? The title of your true birth is not King in the North, but rather that of a Targaryen prince" Baelish informs him, as if Jon is first hearing the revelation and not from the mouth of the three eyed raven "I fear the north will not take kindly to a dragon in their midst" 

"I am no dragon, my lord. I was raised in the north and I hope to die here. I am a North man, no matter my true father" Jon seethes, one fist clenching hard beneath the table. 

 "As I am sure the sentiment is genuine, Your Grace I still fear the forces that rally behind you will not shy away from taking back their fealty" there is a coy smile, hidden beneath the grey bush above his lip that makes Jon feel as if Littlefinger is gloating about the undeserved title that Jon carries. 

"Lord Baelish's words, I fear, are true Your Grace. What will the North think of a Targaryen as their King? They bent their knees to Lord Eddard's son, not Prince Rhaegar's" Ser Davos gently inputs, his eyes a lot kinder than Petyr's "the people here don't forget what Rhaegar did to Lyanna, and the war that it caused" 

"And I'm the outcome of that rebellion? A son born from a union the north went to war for?" Jon asks stiffly, grey eyes blazing "I know this! I know the north won't bend their knees to me again. That's why I'm stepping down from my post and handing the title of King in the North to Bran" 

There is a silence around the table then that Jon can only feel is a silent rebellion to his words. Bran who had sat solemnly before, now has a stance about him that is horror stricken. Sansa looks almost disappointed, but there is an outrage in her Tully blue eyes that makes him look away. 

"Jon, you can not hand me your title. Not when you've fought so hard for it" Bran, as softly spoken as ever, tells him. 

"Aye, I've fought for this family. But I didn't fight so I could be king. I'll hand my title down as easily as it was handed to me. It makes no matter to me" he says as he looks at this boy, this boy he loves and admires so much. A boy he knows is not his brother. 

"I'm the three eyed raven now. I cannot be King, I have other purposes than ruling the North. I was never made for it anyway, you have to do it Jon" Bran tells him and Jon sighs with a heavy sort of impatience, pushing away from the table to stand before the fire in the stone hearth. 

"The boy's right, Snow" Tormund still insists on calling him by his birth surname as if it's still the right one "what does it matter? The title belongs to you. These lords will keep their fancy vows and bend their knees to you again. You won them back the north" 

"It matters because Winterfell has belonged to the Starks for hundreds of years! And I am not a Stark!" Jon says loudly; the words seeming crueler now more than ever as he says them aloud. No one answers for minutes after, and Jon stares at all of them, his eyes lingering on Sansa's downcast face that is serving as a porcelain canvas for the red flames of the fire to cast themselves upon. 

"You heard Lady Mormont, Jon" Sansa's voice brings him out of the state of seeping rage that's building inside him and he looks at her "Ned Starks blood runs through his veins. That's what she said, and it's still true. Lyanna was father's sister, and her blood is of the north. It's of Winterfell just as you are" 

"But my father was not of the north, he was a man they went to war with. This is not up for discussion, I will step down from being King" Jon tells them and it's Davos who stands now, his eyes level with Jon's across the room. 

"I thought you might do this, as honourable as you are Jon" he says "but there's no need for you to step down. Prove to the northerners that you're more Lord Starks son than Prince Rhaeger's with an alliance" 

"An alliance?" Jon furrows his brow in bewilderment. Had he not already tried to form an alliance with the north by fighting for them? 

"Of marriage" 

Jon's head spins at the onion knights declaration, and the room sways as his vision becomes warped. _Marriage_. The word reverberates hauntingly from the deepest parts of him, crying out agonisingly. Marriage had been something he'd turned away from when he'd joined the nights watch, something he'd buried with Ygritte and a union he knew he'd never be happy in unless it was to his sweet, red haired sister. 

_But she is not your sister._

"We are at war Ser Davos, the long night comes for us all. Bran has seen it! A marriage with some northern lords daughter will be the least of our concerns" Jon tells them, but Ser Davos's eyes swim from Jon to Sansa, and something pulls inside his chest. 

 _He can not mean....No_ , Jon thinks, _my own fancies have run away with me_. 

"A marriage, your grace with a suitable house will most likely tie your Targaryen blood with that of the north. Then your bannermen can not abandon you" Petyr Baelish's input is spoken with such an urgency it makes Jon turn his head to him. There is a plea in his eyes that tells Jon all Petyr wants to do is for Jon to believe him. 

But Jon can see through him. _He sees the way I look at Sansa,_ he thinks, _he means to rid me from her life so he can have her himself_. 

"Who would you suggest? Lady Lyanna Mormont? There are no other northern ladies" Jon defends with a scoff, briskly walking up and down the table. 

"I hope I don't speak frankly, Your Grace or out of turn in the presence of the Lady. But I would suggest an alliance between house Targaryen and Stark. Between you Jon and the lady Sansa"

Jon is left immobile and speechless as he stares at Ser Davos, the man's eyes wide and waiting and some part of him thinks Jon will drag him from the halls of Winterfell and behead him for such a suggestion. But the way Jon's lip quivers and the way his eyes dart to Sansa's makes him believe Jon is not angered.

Sansa is sat frozen in her chair, looking upon the shocked face of her king.  Her heart, caged from her feelings towards Jon for so long , pounds in her chest with an overture of emotions. She is one part horrified and one part is elated; that part is far greater than the other. Jon looks at her then, his eyes meeting hers slowly and as they meet she feels something warm rush through her and melt all ice from her insides. There is a question within his grey depths, and its a question of whether she is ready for this. She is not but she gives him a smile nonetheless. 

"Sansa?" the way Jon says her name can make a hundred moments of a bitter past vanish before her eyes. She is in that moment, stricken with her own love for him that she can not speak. Here is the man her father had promised her all those years ago when she had sat a disillusioned girl crying over Prince Joffrey. She is not that girl anymore however, and she is not blinded by titles and golden haired boys. She is wiser, and older, and as she sits there staring at him she begins to wonder whether she's always been in love with Jon and just never admitted it to herself. 

Memories of him kissing her back to life underneath a weirwood tree come to her mind, and how he had grabbed her so many years ago in an alcove, his wet lips against her cheek. It was those memories she thought of when she was here in Winterfell, trapped beneath Ramsay's terror. It was Jon she'd longed to rescue her from King's Landing long after she'd given up hope on Robb. Did he know that? She feels the sudden urge to tell him how he was her salvation throughout it all, how those memories of soft and innocent kisses he had given her were the light in so much darkness. 

"Jon" Sansa breathes out, the name familiar and weighed on her tongue. He takes a step towards her then, his hip level with the high table and he stares down at her with a kindness in his eyes that leaves her breathless. Sansa Stark was not used to the kindness of men.

"I can not ask you to do this, Sansa. It's out of the question" her hope dies with his words, and she knows he can see it as plain as day with the way her face drops. 

"Jon, maybe a marriage between you and Sansa could unite the north should they fear your true name" it's Bran who has spoken, and each pair of eyes turn to his "Sansa is a Stark, if she rules the North by your side then it could be an alliance between houses that have been rivals for years" 

"Bran is right Jon, I have the Stark name. I'm Lady of Winterfell, it makes sense" Sansa tells him, grabbing his hand from where he stands at her side of the table. It reminds him of another time when she had taken his hand at Castle Black. 

"But -" 

"But nothing Jon, you said it yourself we're at war! We can't fight a war among ourselves. That's what will happen if we don't secure your claim to Winterfell through me. No other Northern lady has claim to this castle, but I do. If we marry I'll be Queen in the North and you the King" her eyes are pleading as she looks at him, and he can't help but want the look in her eyes to mean that she wishes to marry him. Not just for a political move, but for a love that once should never have been. 

"Sansa" he sighs in warning, a part of him trying to fight this. Beside Sansa, Lord Baelish seems to be chewing the inside of his lip, and it makes Sansa's willingness all that much sweeter. 

"Jon, Ser Davos is a clever man" she beams at the onion knight, the top of his balding forehead crimsoning as she speaks "and this is a clever move. We're playing the game of thrones now, and this is tactical to secure Winterfell. It must be done" 

Any piece of his heart that was returned to him after death had gripped him is altogether shattered as she speaks. Her words were cool and calm, the words of someone smart and calculated like Cersei Lannister. She sees it as political, whereas Jon sees it as a gateway for something he's longed for his entire life. He can not look at her. 

"You're the King, Jon. If you don't want to do this, then we'll understand" Ser Davos says, and Jon contemplates throwing them all out of the room and perhaps punching through the stone in the wall with his bare hands. He has built up anger and confusion within him that he needs to release. 

Sansa is out of her chair then as she stands, her body angled toward Jons in a way that makes his breath hitch. She has grown good at playing the game, and he wonders if her smile and twinkling eyes is all an act as she looks at him now. His face is taken between her hands and he shivers with the gentleness of her actions. Her crystal blue eyes look into his, and for a split second Jon begins to think that they are the only people in the room. But they are not, and he can feel Littlefingers beady eyes watch them as a crow might watch a corpse. 

" _Will_ you marry me?" she asks him, her head tilted to one side as she gauges his reaction "is that what you want?" 

"If this must be done, for the sake of our family and for the north, then yes. I'll marry you, Sansa" Jon tells her, and she smiles, so heartbreakingly beautiful Jon almost feels as if they are lovers who have been betrothed since early age. _But maybe,_ Jon thinks _, it is the gods who have betrothed us since we were young. Ever since I kissed her beneath the weirwood._  

Sansa leans forward then, Jon's breath hitching in his throat as she presses her lips to his cheek. His heart speeds up in his chest as she puckers her lips and places them back onto his skin, tenderly stroking his bearded cheek with her rosy lips. He shivers when she pulls away, and he can't help but think that everyone in the room can hear his heart beating. 

He will wed Sansa Stark, in the godswood beneath a heart tree like all northern lords of Winterfell before him. They will be in sight of the Old Gods, the gods that Jon believes have watched them since the start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
